


The Response

by ElDiablito_SF



Series: Snippets in Time [10]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drunkenness, M/M, Other, Unrequited Love, kinda fucked up, violence against domestics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grimaud's POV, set around the time of "The First Adieu" when Aramis is gone and d'Artagnan is all covetous and Athos is, of course, crazy and drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Response

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: As in canon, Athos hits Grimaud. If you're not OK with that, don't read this.

_"Love knows no virtue, no merit; it loves and forgives and tolerates everything because it must. We are not guided by reason..."    - Leopold von Sacher-Masoch_

_“It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure.”  - Marquis de Sade_

**The Response**

I am not sure exactly when my master had stopped beating me, but I do remember approximately the time that I had begun to miss him.  He had not gone away, and I, certainly, had not quit his side any more frequently than for the usual errands he had sent me on.  Neither was he more commonly drunk than when he first found me in the streets and recruited me into his employ when I was barely older than a child.  No, if anything, his drinking had become somewhat subdued, and, as a matter of fact, his interactions with me had started to border on politeness.  If I did not know better, I would have attributed it to kindness.  But, no, my master was never kind.

Still, I missed him.  And that was when I realized that he had stopped beating me.  He was still there, but I missed the touch of his hands on me, the only way I ever felt his hands on my body.  I don’t know a better way to explain it, other than this:  I love my master.  Bazin and Planchet, (and even Mousqueton, from time to time, though the latter was of such a cheerful disposition that he failed to notice the misery of others) would often try to tell me that M. Athos treated me badly and that I should leave his service.  But the truth of it was, even had he thrown me out himself, I never would have left.  You don’t leave someone like M. Athos, it’s just not done.  Even at his worst, he was still a thousand times the man than any of these other painted peacock tarts you see around the capital, passing themselves off for nobility.  And, at the end of the day, I’d rather be beaten by him than to be embraced by any of their lot.

I knew the reason for it, of course I did, I am not stupid.  I heard everything, although I always made it a point to see nothing, and to say even less.  But there were only so many places to hide in that two-room apartment on Rue Ferou, so one could not help but hear and see things.  So, yes, I knew why he no longer felt the need to put his hands on me, or, for that matter, to put his hands anywhere except where he was already putting them.  I’m sure you understand my meaning, and there is no reason for me to be explicit.  Not that he ever put his hands on me that way, please do not misunderstand me.  He wouldn’t; he couldn’t.  No matter how much I wanted him to.

And then, after all that time, all of a sudden, _It_ happened.  I still don’t know how or why, my mind is incapable of comprehending how anyone could ever tear himself away from my master, but _It_ did happen.  I thought nothing of it at the time, M. Aramis stepping over my prone body in the middle of the night, as I lay in my usual spot in front of the main entrance.  I was sure he’d return, just as he always returned.  But he was not returning.  And my master did not quit his bedroom that entire day, a day that turned into night, and then into a week, and then the weeks stretched out before us both, interminably. 

He saw no one, not even M. d’Artagnan, for the first few days.  Poor M. d’Artagnan.  We are about the same age, but somehow I have always felt much older.  Not that I could have told him at the time, but I understood him more than he would ever know.  It’s hard to be in the presence of such a furnace and not to get burned by the flames.  One day, as M. d’Artagnan was leaving my master, after only a few minutes in his morose company, he paused by the door and looked me right in the eyes, as if searching for something.  I gave him my most impassive expression.

“I hate that bastard for what he’s done to your master, Grimaud,” M. d’Artagnan squeezed quietly through his teeth.  I said nothing, only giving him an inquisitive look.  Personally, I was always rather fond of M. Aramis.  He was good for my master, and no matter what M. d’Artagnan said, or the way M. Aramis disappeared into the night, he was no bastard.  And he loved my master – you can’t fake love like that.  Seeing no support coming from my direction, M. d’Artagnan put his hat back on and muttered, “Just… make sure he is all right.”

“I always take care of him, Monsieur,” I responded.  And it was true.  I did.  And I always would.

With M. d’Artagnan departing, I went in to see if my master needed anything, and, not surprisingly, received a sign to bring him more wine.  I had the bottle in my hands in a matter of seconds, and was pouring the contents into his cup, when, suddenly, a thought occurred to me.  A dangerous, deliberate thought.  I paused, and the bottle trembled in my hands.  My master glanced over at me, a perplexed look coming across his handsome features.  My eyes met his, and then… well, that was when I slackened my fingers and dropped the bottle of wine to the floor.  It shattered into a dozen pieces.

He looked at the shattered glass, the spilled wine, then back at me, as if he was still trying to register the entire tragedy of the situation.  He looked into his partially filled cup, then back to the floor, then back at me, his eyes darting quickly from one object to the next.  I stood, waiting, with bated breath.  At last, he shrugged, tossed the contents of the cup down his throat, and got up, flexing this fingers.  I could feel my entire body coiled with anticipation when he finally lifted his arm and hit me across the face with the back of his hand.  I stumbled backwards, seeing as he had evidently lost none of his strength or dexterity since the last time he hit me.  He watched me through narrowed eyes, as if contemplating something, and then he hit me again, this time knocking me down to the ground.  I could taste blood in my mouth as I hit the floor.  He slowly lowered himself over me, straddling my hips, and lifted his fist as if to strike again.  I waited for the blow that would not come.

“Why won’t you defend yourself?” he demanded, his voice a rumbling growl, his eyes dark, his fist still raised over my face.  I did not remember the last time he had asked me a question that he actually expected an answer to, plus, I was still waiting for his fist to descend, so I remained still, watching his face.  “Why?” he asked again, unclenching his fist and lowering his hand to cup my face, and repeated, “Why?”  I swallowed and still said nothing, hoping that he would be able to read the answer in my face, as I always hoped he would. 

He shifted his weight off me and sat back onto the floor, too close to the shattered glass for me not to worry that he would cut himself.  I made a movement towards the mess on the floor, but he grabbed my wrist to stop me.  I looked down at where his hand was holding onto me, feeling the beating of his heart through his fingers, although, perhaps it was only the beating of my own heart that I felt.  I was afraid to lift my eyes to meet his, but I felt their dark fire on my face, and I blushed despite my best efforts to control myself.

“You should go,” he whispered.  “You should leave me.”

I turned my arm then and extricated myself from his slackening grip, only to take his freed hand into both of my own and press it to my heart.  He seemed to sway.  I was afraid he would fall and shatter, just like the broken glass.  I grabbed onto him and pressed him to me.  I don’t know what I was expecting, perhaps for him to push me away, or to hit me again, but, instead, I felt his body go limp in my embrace and I felt his breath catch, as if he was trying to suppress a sigh.

“You should leave me,” he repeated, and I felt his breath against my neck.

“No,” I responded. 

“You’re an idiot,” he mumbled, not moving away, still allowing me hold him in my arms.  To this I had no response, other than to tighten my arms around his body.  I had already said everything I would ever need to say to him.


End file.
